


All Kinds of Hopeless

by Jenwryn



Category: Bleach
Genre: Everyday Life, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-07
Updated: 2009-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-04 06:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...which also goes to show, really, exactly what happens when you're dumb enough to take relationship advice from one of your considerably-younger younger-sisters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Kinds of Hopeless

**Author's Note:**

> Random fact -- I'm about ten-thousand years behind on both the manga and the anime, when it comes to Bleach, and so this no longer has any relation to anything anymore. Anyways, I wrote this story many months ago (like, way back in early February), and simply figured it was about time I posted it; it hasn't been edited to death, but hopefully it's okay. ^^;

_I'll try to stay but it's in vain when you're far  
I'm on the run to wherever you are_

And that's the nature of the chase  
You fall so far behind you end in first place

~ Scissor Sisters, 'Land of a Thousand Words'

**►**

The plumbing in the public bathroom rattles slightly, when Ichigo turns on the tap with his left hand. The groaning noise makes him blink, but not jump, and he turns the faucet a fraction further, in an attempt to shut it up; it works. He half nods, half closes his eyes, then puts both of his hands beneath the lukewarm water, stretching his fingers and letting the coolness run freely over them. The three central fingers on Ichigo's right hand have gone a slightly strange colour beneath the water – red and white, in lines and welts, from where a bowstring has pulled against them despite their natural disinclination. The bones on either side of Ichigo's wrist ache a bit, too, which is very strange really, he thinks, seeing as it isn't as though he's not strong. He _is_ strong. But, then, every new thing is a new thing. Ichigo flexes his fingers more; looks at the way the colourings become more defined, in rhythm with the motion of his muscles. Then he reaches for the soap, with his other hand, and kneads the rustling bubbles against the fine cuts that the string has left.

It had seemed like a good idea, when it had first come to him. It had seemed like a way to prove to Ishida that the pair of them weren't so very dissimilar after all. A way to prove, although he refused to say this part out loud, that he cared enough to want to get to know the Quincy better. Actually, it's strange, really, to think about how many years the two of them have spent, bickering and fighting, against each other, and at each others' sides, and yet how little they really know each other, in the end. And Yuzu, well, she's always lectured him about how sharing a person's interests is the best way to show them that you really care—

—which also goes to show, really, exactly what happens when you're dumb enough to take relationship advice from one of your considerably-younger younger-sisters. He really should have known better, and gone to Karin instead. Except, of course, that Ichigo hadn't specifically gone to Yuzu, either; she'd come to him. That's how Yuzu is. She can read his face much too well. Eh, but, they both can, of course; it's just that Yuzu speaks out her penny's worth of thoughts on the matter.

Ichigo gnaws at his lip, rubs the soap between his fingers one last time, then begins to wash the bubbles off. He still should have known better, anyway. Because there is no way in hell he was ever going to be even remotely good with a bow, not even with the regular one, which the Quincy had rustled up from somewhere. Although, fine, that had been okay, too; Ichigo isn't so proud that he actually expects to be skilled at anything in particular. And it's not as though he was planning on challenging Ishida at his own game, because that would have missed the point. But. But Ichigo had nevertheless grown cranky at how bad he'd remained, after hours of trying (_how hard can it be?_ he'd demanded, a question which had earnt him a dirty look and a narrowly dodged slap) and then, of course, they had begun to argue, and arguing had led to shouting, and shouting had, eventually, led to Ichigo having had enough, and storming off.

This is how it always goes.

That's why he'd already known that it would never work.

What he _doesn't_ know is why he insists on coming back and back and back, even when they don't actually need to be in each other's company; even when it means that he has to actively seek the Quincy out, seeing as Ishida never comes looking for him, no. No, Ishida never comes looking for him.

...actually, the real problem is, of course, that Ichigo actually knows full well exactly why he _does_ keep on coming back.

He glares at his hands angrily and wonders if Urahara has some kind of probably-illegal cure-all that works against Chronic Stupidity of the Heart.

Honestly.

His hands are soap-free, he realises suddenly, but he can't seem to bring himself to turn the tap off.

“You never could sense reiatsu, could you, Kurosaki?” says Ishida's voice from directly behind him, and a slender hand reaches around to turn the water off. Only then does Ichigo register having heard the door open softly. He wonders what Ishida would say, if he knew that the real reason, why Ichigo is always being crept up on by him, is that Ichigo's subconscious has long ago decided that the Quincy is in no way a threat. At least, not a threat in any way that his inner fighter can perceive. Which is why Ichigo isn't startled, just mutters something gruffly because he knows it is what is expected from him, and then shakes his hands dry in the sink. He turns to find a hand-towel, but Ishida is already holding one out to him.

“Really,” the Quincy says. “You're all kinds of hopeless, aren't you, Kurosaki?”

Ichigo glares at him, then glares at some vague point beyond his shoulder. There are a thousand and one things he could retort, but he really can't be bothered. He dries his hands roughly, tossing the towel back at the young man before him, and stepping forwards to leave.

Ishida doesn't move.

It takes Ichigo a moment to process that small fact. He cuts his step in half, and rocks backwards on his heels, then forwards again.

“Can we just go now?” he asks. “I think even you must have had enough of belittling me for one day, don't you agree, Ishida?”

But the Quincy doesn't move, simply throws the towel back at him again, hard and cranky, and pushes his glasses up along the bridge of his nose. “No, I don't agree,” he snaps. “Why don't you just get over yourself, Kurosaki? Why did you even want to do this in the first place? Go on. Tell me. Why on earth did the amazing Kurosaki Ichigo want to learn archery?”

“I'm tired, Ishida. It's been a long day, and too much sunlight in it. Just drop it.”

Again, with the thousand retorts in his mind, but Ichigo doesn't speak them. What he has already said is enough. It's also the truth; he really is ridiculously tired. Not of the day, so much, though, as of the game that he plays with himself whenever Ishida is in close proximity. He's long ago lost interest in it, at some point, but he's only just realised it, watching the cuts and the colours on his fingers. Yuzu really had been the wrong sister to talk to. But then, he doesn't have to have actually gone to Karin to know what her advice would have been; she'd have told him to just spit it out, and say whatever it is that's bothering him. She'd have told him to just suck it up and see how it goes.

Perhaps she'd have been right, too.

Ichigo steps forwards again, and again, and again, until Ishida has to move backwards. The angle Ichigo has come at him from leaves the Quincy with his spine pressed against the bathroom's thin wall. Ishida's eyes are wide, but unmoving; fixed, as if nature had made them for that purpose alone, intently upon Ichigo's eyes. It's almost too much, and Ichigo wants to look away, but he doesn't. He's fought shinigami, he's fought bounto, he's fought vizard, arrancar, and espada; he's fought fucking _monsters_, and stared them all in the eye – he can do that much to one, slender Quincy.

Of course, this one slender Quincy is a whole lot more beautiful than most of the rest of those others were.

Ichigo slams one of his hands down against the wall, to the right of Ishida's head, and hits his other hand, palm down, against Ishida's left shoulder, shoving the young man even closer to the wall. “What do you want me to say, Uryû?” he demands. “You want me to tell you everything? You want me tell you that you're sending me fucking crazy, and have been practically since the day we met? Fine. Consider yourself told. Because I just don't care any more. All we do, when we're together, is argue, argue, argue. I can't take it. And what's even the point? I mightn't know much, but I do know you can't build a relationship on arguments.”

Ichigo shoves against the Quincy's shoulder, one last time, like a punctuation mark. He moves to turn and spin away, except that suddenly there's a fine-knuckled hand wrapped around his wrist.

“What the hell?” Ichigo demands, and then his voice fails him. Ishida is staring at him as if he were – as if he were – ah, Ichigo doesn't even know. He's rarely seen that particular expression on Ishida's face before, and he isn't entirely certain how to interpret it.

“You're messing with me, right?” the Quincy demands, slowly and dangerously.

To be honest, Ichigo isn't sure whether he wants to thump himself on the head, or thump the boy standing there glaring at him. “Oh, for the love of – honestly—” He stops, sighs, and gives up; gives it all up, throws it all to the wind as if he were fighting a kenpachi. Ichigo leans in, and kisses him.

As kisses go, it could have been better. For a start, Ishida is too busy gaping at him to really do anything much, and then his hand is clawing angrily at Ichigo's chest and then, when Ichigo continues to ignore him, and just keeps on stubbornly kissing him anyway, Ishida goes kind of warm beneath his touch, grabs at Ichigo's head, and yanks it backwards by a hank of his hair.

Come to think of it, kisses tend to involve two people, and so this one was therefore nothing more than Ichigo making a fool of himself, earning a hint of what Ishida tastes like, and a black eye, for his trouble.

The black eye, because the Quincy pulls his arm back, and punches him for all he's worth, sending Ichigo reeling backwards, and making him yelp just a little.

“What the hell?” he demands again, shouting this time, his hands flying from where he'd been rubbing at the spot that Ishida had pulled too hard on, to half cover his face.

Ishida looks enraged. “You really are messing with me! You think you can just – just – you think you can – you think—” And then he stops. His hands drop to his sides, and his shoulders sag a little. For a moment he just stares at the floor and then, finally, finally he looks up again, peering at Ichigo from a strange angle. His voice, when he uses it, is low. “You're serious,” he says, and it's not a question, it's a statement.

Ichigo turns to study his damaged face in the mirror, marvelling that someone as skinny as Ishida can pack such a punch. He glares at the Quincy via his reflection. “And you think I'm stupid,” he complains.

Ishida, he can see in the mirror, shifts indecisively from one foot to the other. He steps forwards, and then steps back, and then steps forwards again. Finally, though, he seems to make up his mind, because his eyes, when he glances up at the mirror again, have a determined glint to them. He walks up to Ichigo, and meets the gaze of his reflection. “You're serious,” he repeats. “That's what this is about. The whole thing. This is about the fact that... you're serious.”

Ichigo turns the tap on again, and splashes cold water gingerly against his face. The already darkening bruise is going to look like shit in the morning.

Again, just like before, Ishida reaches around him, and turns the tap off. This time, though, Ishida's arm is closer to Ichigo's body, tentatively, as if he's testing something. He leaves it there, too.

“I'm not going to spell it out for you,” Ichigo grumbles, although it doesn't come out half so pissed-off as he intends it.

“Kurosaki,” says Ishida, then bites at his lip, shakes his head a little, and tries again. “Ichigo?”

Ichigo realises that he's smiling, although he couldn't really say when it had begun. “Yeah,” he says, and reaches out again, cautiously this time; slow enough to give the Quincy time to pull away, or scream, or something. Ishida doesn't pull away. He doesn't exactly move forwards either but, when Ichigo's hand reaches his face, he leans his cheek towards it, like a cat caressing someone who's petting it.

Ichigo's stomach takes a leap.

“Um,” he says, “uh, if I...?”

He pauses.

Ishida is biting at his lip again. He fiddles with his glasses, and then half smiles. “If you kiss me again,” he whispers lowly, “I promise I won't punch you for it.”

Ichigo can't really think of anything much to say to that, so he doesn't even try, just steps forwards again, and closes the distance between them for a second time.

This kiss is a real kiss.

It involves warmth and lips and mouths and need. It involves Ichigo's arms working out how to wrap themselves around the Quincy's body, and pull him closer. It involves Ishida's hands winding their way around Ichigo's neck, and creeping their way into his stupidly messy hair. It involves breath and heat and spit, and something indefinable, which feels an awful lot like raw emotion.

It involves two people. Both of them.

When they part, Ichigo leans back against the sink, and gazes at the Quincy. He knows he must look pretty daft, because he can feel how wide his eyes are, but Ishida seems pretty shaken up himself, so he figures it's a fair bet that no sarcastic comments will be flying his way just right now.

Ishida calms his breathing, and then moves back in to lean against Ichigo's chest.

Ichigo's hands still sting from the bowstring, as he rubs his hands up and down Ishida's spine, memorising the feel of it. He doesn't care if his hands hurt, not now. He doesn't even care if they argue.

“Just this,” he says, aloud.

Ishida doesn't say anything at all, simply nods, and smoothes his hands almost anxiously against Ichigo's chest, as though to prove that he is real, as though to prove that he is truly here. Ichigo watches him, curiously, his skin tingling as the Quincy's fingers reach his collar and touch, tentatively, at the bare skin of his neck. Then the dark-haired boy lifts his face, meets Ichigo's gaze, and smiles, real and warm and wide.

And perhaps it might work after all.


End file.
